we rarely ever become adults

even when we grow up

Claude Monet

It begins as it always does, the bright light of nostalgia breaking up into a thousand particles that suffocate you while the horizon of your future remains unknown in the dark. When I was younger, I would proclaim loudly with the authority of a naive girl whose only problem was deciding whether to watch Winx Club or Sofia The First, that I wanted to become an adult. I craved the freedom that came with waking up, driving into a car, rocking up to some bar to drink a cocktail, going home, and sleeping. Something was striking at how adults get to run around and explore this forever-rotating globe while children are expected to play with toys and throw tantrums over special-edition dolls. Now that I am an adult, it is amusing and quite ironic how many wishes I pray into my pillow to become that small girl again. It scares me that I haven’t seen or experienced a lot of things that adults need to do, and I’m already fatigued. Friends tell me their bills piling up, classmates complaining about relationships that are wearing them down, and my parents have discussions on finance and the intricacies that adults have to do, like walking on a tightrope. Nearly everyone I know has conversations about bills, love, money, and houses, and the cycle continues.

What I have found from talking to friends and reflecting on myself, is how we actually revert back to being a child again. I’ve been rewatching the same childhood shows, trying to wear brighter, spunky clothes again. I collect Sonny Angels and keep them on my shelf or in my pocket. I customise my phone case and laptop case to be bright. I have a bear plushie called Mr. Pookie Wookie that keeps me company and is very cute. We can be “grown up” per say, but inside we are still that small child who looked up at the sky with curiosity as sharp as a flying harp that jumped over the moon. I cannot give a solid definition on adulthood because I don’t feel like an adult. I may be an adult by law, but by heart, I’m still a Doc McStuffins girl who also wanted to play under the sea with Ariel. I also think the reason why I don’t feel like an adult is because I can’t relate to the external markers people have placed that supposedly makes you an adult.

Some think it’s when you officially get married, others believe it’s when you’re dealing with proper bills, have a full-time job, have a lot of life experience or get several qualifications and awards. I don’t really believe these are true markers of a mature adult. I have encountered “adults” that have all these things and yet are the most immature, irresponsible, and ironically, childish. I’ve met award-winning professors who act like babies when someone disagrees with their view. I’ve met church elders who are complicit in bullying and act like high school girls hungry for some drama. I’ve met wives and husbands who are stupid about the world around them, and somehow their kids have a clearer focus on the world than they do. I’ve met people who have 3+ jobs, splashing their money at the casino, or pub, or both. I’ve watched incredibly intelligent, and sometimes, geniuses’ lives go down the drain because a boyfriend told them to do xyz. I don’t think we actually know what makes someone an adult. We assign labels to what we think makes an adult, and feel discombobulated when we do not live up to these labels. Some people in university first year, drank till they dropped, kissed and slept with strangers, proceeded to tell me that I’m still living as a “child.” It’s strange they equate these experiences to being an adult. They think trying different drugs will make them an adult overnight. That putting your life at risk is the peak of adulthood. I wasn’t even upset they said that, I just felt pity for them.

From observing many people in my life and beyond, all I see are little children, who are scared of the world and were never given a guide to life, cosplaying as adults. Almost like when young girls sneak into their mum’s makeup bag, and in an awkward manner, try to apply lipstick on themselves, which results in a cartoonish clown face.

We rarely ever become adults, not in the way the movies and books always promise. We mimic the rituals—the mortgage, the job with a title that sounds impressive on a business card or CV, the dinner parties where we serve wine we don’t really understand. We rehearse the language, the solemn cadence of responsibility: investments, retirement plans, tax quarters. Beneath it, there is still that child, the one who did not know how to tie their shoes without making a mess of the lace. That child never really left. It just learned how to keep quiet during conference calls. Adulthood, we were told, was a destination, a switch that flips the moment you hit a certain age or acquire a particular skill. The truth is, we are always stumbling through it, improvising, hoping no one notices the gaps in our performance. We carry our childhood fears in the pockets of our carefully tailored suits and dresses, smuggling them into lectures and board meetings. The fear of not knowing and being left behind.

No one is saying this out loud but the truth about growing up is that no one ever really knows what they’re doing. They only get better at pretending. We go on, like actors in a play where the script keeps changing, leaning into the part with all the earnestness and joy we can muster, hoping the audience doesn’t catch us glancing at the cue cards.

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“I am convinced that most people do not grow up. We find parking spaces and honor our credit cards. We marry and dare to have children and call that growing up. I think what we do is mostly grow old. We carry accumulation of years in our bodies and on our faces, but generally our real selves, the children inside, are still innocent and shy as magnolias.” — Maya Angelou